


Of Winter Hopes

by EmeraldSage



Series: A Wrinkle in Crinoline [8]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Arthur can be a Bad Parent, Crossdressing, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Historical Hetalia Week 2020, Siblings plotting, Treaty of Ghent, War of 1812
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 10:35:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23470009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: As if burning his heart hadn't been enough, Arthur would burn his hopes as well.Even when he didn't realize he was doing it.
Relationships: America & England (Hetalia)
Series: A Wrinkle in Crinoline [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/772014
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	Of Winter Hopes

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** Mistake & Regret (4/5 and 4/6)  
>  **Warning:** This is utter angst. Brace yourselves. My purpose is to make you cry.  
>  **Notes:** I have no experience with the Commonwealth characters usually, so I’m borrowing the names from AnAppleofDiscord’s Wendigo series (which seriously y’all, you should read, it’ll just destroy you in the process). Olivia: Barbados, Pippa: Jamaica, Michelle: Seychelles. Also, in my opinion, Alfred _does_ have magic. It's green magic, which is why he’s kind of like a Disney princess in many ways. He also has a minor shapeshifting gift, but shhhhh, that’s for later.

It was supposed to have been a nice surprise. It was supposed to be a pleasant evening out. It was supposed to be a relief, to see his family without the pressure and tension of interacting with them as himself, so soon after their latest conflict.

He should’ve known better.

Skirts swished against soft stone marking the garden pathway, and he crossed his arms in silent comfort as much as he did to ward off the winter chill. His feet took him across familiar walkways, through the labyrinth of flora layering the enchanting back gardens of his father’s large country estate even in the cold of winter, until he found the steps leading down to a familiar pond.

He felt his lips curl up into a faint smile as he eyed the frost sparkling over the pond; diamond dust against the ink dark swish of the waves illuminated only by the stars and the torches held aloft to light the garden. It was there that he sat down, minding the soft blue overskirt covering the white underlayers, perching on cold, worn stone steps leading down towards the pond filled with happy memories.

God, he really should’ve known better.

He really thought they could do it.

That had been why he’d written to them. To Olivia, to Pippa, and later, to Michelle. He and Olivia could be at odds against a number of things. Hell, growing up, they’d always clashed. They were the prideful ones, the stubborn ones when it came down to it. But give them something they had in common and by god, they’d get it done, and done _right_. And bringing their family back together had been a cause she’d thrown all her weight and ambition behind. Screw the idea that the Commonwealth was still trying to come together as a family, not just a collection of treasures under an Empire’s greedy eye. That Alfred had forced himself apart from that very collection. This was their chance to bridge that ever-widening gap.

They’d plotted for over a year, through letters and back channels, and even little magical notes that slipped the Kirkland siblings’ notice. Olivia had helped him with the dress, Michelle with the story, and Pippa with intercepting the reports from Arthur’s personal spies in Alfred’s household.

Pippa and Alfred had always been the best at evading Arthur’s cunning eye. When he wasn’t in a position to avoid the reports, she did her best at making sure it didn’t matter. And after all, their plans would be for nothing if Arthur found out Alfred had left and guessed at where he would be. So, they outfoxed, out planned, and outrun the old man while Alfred made his way across the Atlantic, to attend the massive Kirkland Gala in late March of 1823.

Despite everything he felt - all the anger, the fear, the righteous fury and devastation his father and his family had put him through - he still missed his family. He wanted to see them. He wanted to _know_ that they were alright.

And it was all for nought, after everything they’d done.

He closed his eyes as the simmering fire burned and scalded against the faintest, fraying threads of hope he’d held them back with. The pit screamed at him, empty and yearning and almost inevitable. The despair coiled tightly within his heart, yearning to explode outwards, had only grown in the intervening years since the White House had burned. And tonight…

His breath hitched, and every plant in the area twitched.

He blinked as the ivy that had been clinging to the hedge nearby nudged him as it hovered at his side. He felt the smile on his lips soften, a gloved hand coming up to pet it gently, brushing against the soft mossy texture layering the plant.

“I’m okay,” he said softly, reassuringly, to the ivy vine, which nudged him again. A small bushel of hellebore rustled nearby, concerned, and some winter jasmine huffed disapprovingly as the wind whistled through it. “Really, I am. Or, rather,” he corrected himself, at the jasmine’s disapproving whistle, “I will be. I promise.”

His eyes burned, and he blinked to force the tears back as a small heather plant blossomed up through the stone near his right foot and brushed against him comfortingly. The ivy vine draped over his shoulder, squeezing him in its own comforting version of a hug.

Footsteps, slow, searching, and familiar approached him, and he didn’t bother looking up when they stopped nearby.

“Alfie,” Olivia’s voice was soft, apologetic, and he almost couldn’t bear it. Her footsteps were as soft on the garden’s stone pathway, and he just stared out at the wealth of greenery in front of him as she came to sit by his side. “Alfie, I’m so sorry,” she said, leaning against him, the vines that had wrapped around him comfortingly shifting away to accommodate her, “I didn’t think -,” she stopped herself, slumping. “I should’ve.”

“No,” he said, voice tight, “no, Livvie, it’s alright. You couldn’t have known.”

“I could’ve guessed,” she insisted, eyes sad but persistent, “I should’ve considered that he would...well,”

“That he would rag on me?” his voice was steady, thank god, even if his heart wasn’t.

Olivia sighed quietly, “Arthur’s been...frustrated lately,” she said softly, “It seemed to get worse leading into the gala, and the storm last month has hardly helped his temper. I’m sure he didn’t mean any of it, Al. He never does, when he comes back to his senses.”

“Oh, don’t sell me a dog, Livvie,” he sighed, all the frustration, the pain and humiliation churning within him, and he slumped, “I - I mean, I wasn’t expecting him to crack up about me or nothing, I just - I…,” his voice cracked, “But I’m his son. I just…”

Didn’t expect his father to be viciously assaulting him, his character, his country, his people, all across the pond where Alfred should’ve never heard him, to people who he held respect for. Didn’t expect to be called rude, beligerent, ungrateful, idiotic, unsuccessful, doomed to failure, all but to his _face_.

Even if Arthur had never realized he’d been there.

The old man hadn’t even been _drunk_. Alfred couldn’t even have that cushion of reassurance that his father wouldn’t do such a thing without the alcohol stripping his inhibitions and better sense from him.

“I just thought that it would be nice to see him” he continued, tone quiet and wistful with a sense of unreturned longing, “It’s - we haven’t seen each other since the war. Ivan did the arbitration last year, and I never saw dad at all. I missed him. I….” he swallowed down the words painfully.

 _I thought he’d missed me_.

Obviously not.

A cold wind tumbled through the air, whistling tightly around them, and brushing up against his face with a vicious chill. His eyes pressed closed when he registered the sense of warmth on his face against the wind’s chill.

He reached a gloved hand up to brush the tears from his eyes, “This was a mistake,” he said, and his voice hitched. “This was a _mistake_.”

“ _Alfred_ ,” his pseudo-sister wrapped him in a tight hug. “I’m sorry, hun.”

After a moment, sitting like that, close and quiet and sad together, Olivia sighed, and pushed herself upright. “I have to go,” she said quietly, “I’ll send Pippa and Michelle when I get to them. We couldn’t all come out, or we would’ve been missed.” And they didn’t want any attention on what they were doing. Especially now.

“It’s okay,” he said, a faint smile touching his lips even as his arms tightened around himself, “go, before someone notices you’re not there.” She offered him a small smile and made her way back out the garden.

When he couldn’t hear her footsteps anymore, he allowed himself to slump, and for the tears to finally overflow. The ivy hugged him tight, and he let himself be comforted by his magic’s embrace. In a little while, he’d have to gather himself and be on his way.

But this much comfort, he could spare for himself.

**.**

Arthur was restless, Rhys noted to himself with a sigh. Arthur had been restless for the last week, but only in the last few days had it turned to an angry restlessness with a _direction_. It had driven all the young colonies to eye the Empire warily, and kept them fidgeting restlessly on the ballroom floor while Arthur waltzed around, an air of irritation wreathed around him like the plague. And only his brothers were aware of the reason behind Arthur’s sudden irritation.

None of the spies from Washington City had sent a report in almost a month. Not a single one. No report on Alfred’s conditions, hell, even the boy’s whereabouts, had found their way across the pond in a month. Every avenue of information they had on the teenage nation - from magical sources to common mundane ones - had failed them, and it had driven them all spare trying to figure out _why._ Arthur’s temper, naturally, had manifested in his broiling temper boiling over at the thought of Alfred outsmarting him and hiding from him, leading to a truly wrathful Empire practically enumerating his son’s every fault.

Rhys really didn’t want to be anywhere near Arthur when his younger brother came back to his senses. Although, he’d realized an hour into the ball, it wasn’t just his common sense that was tugging him away. Something was tugging at him, a sense of recognition, an awareness of a familiar presence nearby. But he’d dismissed it, noting that dealing with Arthur’s chaos and the colonies’ uneasiness to be the priority.

“Ah,” he heard his brother start, “Olivia, dear, come here.”

Rhys turned, just in time to notice Olivia, who’d been speaking in low voices with Michelle and Pippa interestingly enough, turn to smile at his younger brother. A strained smile, he noted, that Arthur seemed to _not_ notice. “Yes sir?” she said, Michelle and Pippa exchanging looks behind her that made Rhys’s eyes narrow.

“Whatever happened to that friend you were bringing from the colony,” his younger brother was asking, brows furrowed together, “Elizabeth, was it?”

Rhys had a flash of an image, a young woman, tall and winter-pale with a wreath of russet brown locks in a crown atop her head, and an elegant floor length gown a few years out of fashion, just as Olivia smiled, “Yes, Eliza,” she said, “there were some people who were almost heckling her, sir. Her gown was a few years older - her family’s just moved out to the colony, and most people don’t realize how expensive such a move is. She decided to head out a little early.”

Arthur and Rhys frowned in tandem, “That’s unfortunate,” Arthur said, attention focusing, “I had looked forward to meeting your friend. Will she be coming by for tea later this week? I thought you’d mentioned you would meet her later on…?”

“I’ll ask her.”

“Yes,” Arthur nodded, distracted once more, “see that you do.” And with that dismissal, he wandered off, seemingly in search of something. The girls exchanged odd looks before fading back into the crowd, leaving Rhys leaning against the wall, wallflowering as per usual, and now oddly curious. Something was prodding him about Olivia’s young friend, something that had obviously drawn Arthur’s attention. But there was nothing to be done about that at the moment, he supposed. Perhaps leaning some attention to the instincts that were poking at him might distract him...

When Rhys finally followed his instinct tugging at him, he came to the back of the massive gardens the manor held, and stared. There was a small wall of vines and flora that had come together, twisting and winding around each other everywhere into a snug blanket. A blanket wall with a very noticeable person-sized hole in its midst.

And a heartbreakingly familiar magic thrumming through it all.

**.**

Not even two days later, just as the first frantic reports made it to Arthur Kirkland about his son’s escapades, Alfred stood at the bow of his ship heading homewards, looking away from the land falling away behind him.

By the time that Arthur had put together the reality of what had happened, when the puzzle pieces had clicked in Rhys’s mind, and Pippa had stopped intercepting the reports, releasing all of them to flood their colonizer’s office at once...the mistakes had already been made.

And all that was left behind for them to remember were the regrets.

**Author's Note:**

> [Outfits!](https://pin.it/6wmqiDW) I love sharing the outfits for this verse because we get to be creative. Although I will let you know that the outfits were picked out by Usagi323, who is my usual co-conspirator.
> 
> 1800s slang terms used in work (in order of use, mostly)  
> “Don’t sell me a dog”: basically means “don’t lie to me”  
> “Crack up”: to praise, talk up, or laud
> 
> One neat glossary if you're interested in finding more can be found [here!](https://www.edwardianpromenade.com/resources/a-glossary-of-slang/)


End file.
